


dream of the fisherman's wife

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bet you didn’t see that one coming, Blanket Permission, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, HYDRA Trash Party, Horror, Lovecraftian Horror, M/M, Other, Some Plot, Steve Whump, Tender Loving Non-Consentacles, Tentacle Porn, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Teratophilia, dubcon, erotic asphyxiation, horror porn, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The team, accompanied by a recently recalibrated Bucky Barnes, go investigate an abandoned Hydra base. Steve gets separated from the rest of the group, and discovers something horrifying lurking in the underground base. Or, rather, it discovers him.(Or: the Lovecraftian tentacle fic that no one asked for.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Monster
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111
Collections: Anonymous





	dream of the fisherman's wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/gifts).

> This fic is dedicated to SallySparrow017. I apologize if this isn’t your cuppa (but it’s the thought that counts, right?). Listening to all of your MCU podfics inspired me to write this. Seriously, you are a gift to the fandom, thank you for your service. 
> 
> Self-edited, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> If you want to remix, podfic, or translate this work, I give blanket permission.

_Cold._

This was the first thought that snaked its way through his addled brain as it crept slowly up from the dredges of unconsciousness. Cold and wet, with the drip-drip, choate sounds that belied a cavern. Or cellar.

As he sluggishly gathered the rest of his mental faculties, he reasoned that either option was perfectly likely. Just depended on how unlucky he was when he fell. 

They had been on an op: Bucky, Natasha, Sam, and himself. Investigating an old Hydra base, situated on an island off the north coast of Turkey. “Турция,” Natasha had said, muttering it under her breath with a certain amount of dislike. Whether for the country itself or some memory she had of it, Steve wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked.

What little intel they had told them that the base had been empty for at least three decades, if not more. There was almost no point in checking it out, except that Bucky was insistent. He remembered having been there.

“I thought they kept you in the dark about that stuff,” Steve had said at some point during the transatlantic flight that took them away from America, from home. He had kept his tone light, not accusatory, not disbelieving. Bucky had been with them for going on seven months now and doing remarkably well; but there were still certain things that set him off, and Steve didn’t want to be the one to provoke his ire over the thought of not being taken seriously.

Bucky, who had cornered himself at the end of a row of seats on the small jet and was practically pressed up against the window, shook his head. He didn’t look at Steve, but kept scanning the mass of grey clouds through the glass. He looked only a little less unruly than when Steve had found him those seven months ago, his hair still long and unkempt, his face still scraggly with ever-present stubble; but he was wearing clean clothes these days, no leather, and his eyes were bright and lucid.

“They did,” he had said gruffly, and Steve suppressed the urge to swipe at the tiny strand of hair clinging to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “But I remember this place. They didn’t . . . I wasn’t in cryo when they brought me here.”

He kept saying “here” as if they’d already arrived. Bucky did things like that sometimes. Steve wasn’t sure if it was a sign of some underlying problem (though if it wasn’t, it would be a god damn miracle) but decided it was best not to press Bucky too much, so Steve let these slips go for the most part. He figured the best he could do was listen.

Or, perhaps, it was _all_ Steve could do. Since turning from Hydra (and allowing Steve to track him down) Bucky had willingly complied with all SHIELD requests for tests, both physical and psychological. He had let a team of (nearly) intrepid scientists poke and prod him, ask him questions, all with a docility that was, frankly, frightening. He had borne it all without so much as a flinch, even when they drew his blood—and they drew a lot of it. However, when he had been allowed to come home—to come home to _Steve_— he had kept his distance. Steve put him up in the spare bedroom that Sam sometimes used when he stayed over. He had . . . well, he had not quite expected that things be like they were, but he did expect . . . _something._ Something more than moving around each other like ghosts, barely speaking. It was kind of agonizing, honestly.

But not as agonizing as the time five months ago when he had reached out to touch Bucky on the shoulder, and Bucky had recoiled as if Steve’s hand were a branding iron.

Bucky had apologized, and Steve tried to reassure him that it was fine, they were fine, it was okay if he wasn’t comfortable with that. But Steve hadn’t tried to touch him since. And, in the back of Steve’s mind, he remembered the Bucky that used to ruffle his hair affectionately, who had slept in the same bed when the nights were cold, who had hugged him so fiercely before his deployment.

Steve has to keep reminding himself that they aren’t the same person.

“They had . . .” Bucky licked his chapped lips. “They had some labs there. Weird stuff. They were running experiments on both humans and animals, using engineered mutagens. There was something they were going to test on me, to see if it would. . . .” he trailed off for a moment. The fingers of his metal hand twitched.

“Whatever it was, I don’t . . . I don’t think it took,” he said finally. “We shipped out a few days later. Then back on ice.”

“What does he think we’re going to find there?” Nat had asked without preamble as Steve climbed into the cockpit next to her a few hours later.

Steve shook his head and glanced back into the back half of the jet. Sam was catching some uneasy shuteye across four seats, wing pack on the floor beside him. Bucky was still staring out the window.

“I don’t know,” Steve replied truthfully.

“The last two places we’ve been were dead-ends,” Natasha reminded him. Her grip on the steering of the jet was firm, easy. By Steve’s guess, she’d been up for fifty-six hours, and didn’t seem to be tired yet. It was always a mystery to him, Nat’s sleep schedule. Maybe she didn’t even have one.

She and Bucky seemed to have that in common. 

“I trust his instincts,” Steve said, and that had earned him a Look. It clearly said: _His instincts have been rewired. _

But she hadn’t said as much. She kept to their course, and they had landed in Turkey not four hours later.

The last thing Steve could coherently remember was picking through a dense gaggle of trees that was too small to be a forest but too big to be a coppice. Bucky had been several yards in front of him, waist-deep in green foliage, and Steve had been about to call out to him when the ground seemed to give out from under him.

Now . . . he had no idea where he was.

As his body and mind awoke more, Steve took inventory. He felt a little sore, but the ache was only consistent with having fallen from a decent height—or being knocked around and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, he wasn’t sure which. His right wrist felt badly sprained, but nothing else hurt seriously. It was cold, as he’d noticed, and he could feel a hard, wet surface beneath his cheek. It felt like rock, but parts of it were slippery whereas other parts were jagged. Limestone? He couldn’t hear anything save for his own breathing, and the inconstant drip of water.

Where was he? Where was everyone else? His heart jumped into his throat at the thought of Bucky, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. Bucky could handle himself, just as Nat and Sam could. Steve just needed to figure out where the hell he was so that he could find them again. 

Slowly, Steve forced open his eyes.

At first, it seemed there was nothing to see. It was nearly pitch black all around him, the darkness punctuated only by strange patches of soft luminescence. After a few moments of blinking, his eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness, and he was able to make out various irregular structures, and a very still reflective surface some fifteen feet away. A pool of water.

Giving a soft groan, Steve used his hands to push himself up onto all fours. The movement was more difficult than it should have been; his limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. He winced, a muscle pulling in his leg. He must have fallen farther than he’d thought. . . .

But when he looked up, he saw nothing but dark, faintly slick ceiling with those weird, soft pink patches of glowing stone. So, he hadn’t fallen directly into this . . . cave. He’d been brought here—dragged here, if the chafed skin of his back was to be believed. Carefully, Steve reached back to feel his uniform, fingers brushing across snags in the fabric. There were titanium plates woven beneath most of the material, but the blue cloth sitting above them was torn fairly. He reached his hand over his shoulder to feel his back: his fingers met cool metal in some spaces, and bare, raw skin in others. He pressed a finger experimentally into a patch of skin of his shoulder blade, and hissed at the pain. The skin there had been torn, was wet. When he pulled back his hand, he saw his hand was covered in thin, watery blood.

Steve wondered whether Bucky had heard him fall. He can’t remember if he had screamed or not.

A sudden sound from the direction of the pool make Steve nearly jump out of his skin. He jerked his head in that direction, eyes straining in the darkness. It had sounded like a splash. What he could see of the pool’s surface seemed to be rippling.

Perhaps a stalactite had fallen from the ceiling? He looked; there _were_ rock formations hanging down over the pool, but most of them looked solid, thick at the base. Not structures that would just break off at random. At least, from what he could tell at this distance.

He considered investigating. The water was growing calmer by the second, ripples fading to the edges of the pool, hitting the edge of the water, fading out. Soon, it would be as still as when he first laid eyes on it—

Steve jumped again as something wet crawled over his left hand. He jerked it away from where it was braced on the floor, his movements feeling lugubrious and uncoordinated. He sat back on his heels, and his head swam dizzily. Christ, what was wrong with him? Did he fall on his head?

He looked down at his hand. Nothing there.

His eyes fell to the ground where it had been.

_What the hell?_

Steve stared hard, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It looked like a little string of light, pulsating the same soft pink as the stones above him. Only, it was _moving_. Gliding softly along the slick stone floor towards nothing in particular.

Somewhat apprehensively, Steve placed his hand back upon the ground and lowered his face so he could examine the thing more closely. It was a thin creature, its diameter smaller than his littlest finger. It appears to have no discernable eyes but, much like an earthworm, seemed to have a clear head region, which it pushed forwards along the floor, slithering like a snake.

Realization dawning, Steve craned his head to look back up at the ceiling. Sure enough, the more he concentrated and the more his eyes adapted to the near darkness, he could make them out more clearly: the patches of light he previously thought were luminescent stone were moving as well. Had they been before and he just hadn’t seen it?

_Splash._

Sluggishly, Steve jerked his head in the direction of the sound. The pool of water was disturbed again, this time the ripples seeming larger and more erratic. What was that? Were these things falling into the water?

Another sound reached his ears then, faint and murmurous. It sent an inexplicable chill up Steve’s spine.

The glowing snakelike thing on the floor suddenly stopped its progress, coiling into a tight spiral. It stayed this way for several seconds before uncoiling. It began crawling in the direction of the water.

And, when Steve looked up, the patches of light—which he realized were congregations of these creatures—were moving, disbanding as more and more of the creatures left the huddle and began slithering along the ceiling towards the pool.

Steve tried to bring himself to standing. He tucked his feet under him and tried to push himself up—but every time he did so, his head swam and his legs buckled. His muscles seemed to be made out of jelly. What was wrong with him? His head still felt fuzzy. Did he have a concussion? He reached up to touch his head, moving his hand through his damp hair, looking for a wound, but felt nothing. Why did he feel so weak and discombobulated?

In his periphery, Steve saw several more strands of pink-glowing creature move along the floor. And, when he looked around, he saw that _all _of the creatures were moving towards the pool, taking their soft pink light with them.

He shouldn’t follow them, he knew. Some rational part of his brain told him not to follow.

But he turned to look behind him towards the other end of the cave . . . and saw nothing but pitch. It was a blackness that seemed to want to swallow him.

His heart gave a shudder. He suddenly felt cold all over. It _did _want to swallow him. It _would._

Without thinking, he turned away from the darkness and began crawling towards the pool. It was a blind, panicked scramble on his hands and knees, his heart thudding in his ears, palms slipping along the cold, slimy floor, he just had to get away, just—

He stopped abruptly when one of his hands came into contact with icy water.

He recoiled and stumbled backwards, landing hard on his backside. The sudden jerk disoriented him further, and he sat there, dazed, watching the creatures around him crawl towards the water. They began disappearing at the water’s edge one-by-one. At first, Steve thought that the water was murky, maybe not even water—oil, something viscous and dark— but when he looked closer, he saw that the water was nearly crystalline clear. The creatures only seemed to disappear because, as soon as they submerged, they ceased to glow.

They were all moving towards the pool. If they all went in, he would be left in complete darkness.

And he was just beginning to panic anew over this, when Steve found, abruptly, that he had something much more immediate to worry about.

In his fear, his hands spasmed reflexively where they were braced against the stone— and one of them brushed against something slick, and velvety, and _warm. _

He jerked his hand away and looked down. He could barely see anything—the dimness was increasing by the second— so he didn’t see it at first.

Rather, he felt it. Felt something with that same slick, velvety texture wrap around his ankle.

He looked down. The right leg of his suit had been torn open at the calf, leaving his pale skin exposed. And there, wrapped snugly around his clammy flesh was a single black tendril belonging to. . . .

Steve’s gaze followed the thing where it disappeared into the water.

He did not have time to wonder what it might be before the surface of the water began to ripple violently, and something breached the dark surface.

It surfaced slowly, seeming to rise up bare inches at a time, but it was quickly apparent that this thing, whatever it was, was _massive._ Its body seemed without discernable form, just a mountain of black skin that glistened under the glow of the luminescent worms. Arms—way too many arms—sprouted from its sides and underneath its body, the skin of them also black and oily. The limbs—tentacles—seemed to change size at random, pulsing thick one moment before thinning out. They each moved as if they had a life of their own, some dancing along the edge of the pool, others undulating in the water. The tentacle around Steve’s ankle held gently but firmly. Every minor move he made caused it to tighten, as if to say, _Ah ah ah. _

Steve’s hands pressed painfully into the rock beneath him. His chest was heaving, and he felt as though he was having a panic attack. His head became suddenly hazy, and he struggled not to black out.

“Oh god—” he choked. as the creature moved closer, approaching the edge of the water where he lay prone. _“Oh god.”_

Another tendril snaked towards him, and Steve felt paralyzed, absolutely helpless as it wrapped around his other ankle. Slowly, almost gently, the arms began pulling, dragging him back towards the water’s edge. He kicked out, but more arms—how many were there? Too many, _too_ many— reached out and grabbed further up his legs. One sngged his right wrist and pulled it from under him. His feet were dragged into the water first, and it was so cold that a fierce shiver ran up his entire body like an electric shock. He flailed and pulled against the arms, but they simply constricted tighter, pulling him further into the pool.

The creature tugged at him almost lazily, submerging him in by agonizing inch. Steve was up to his waist in water before he thought suddenly of the nature documentary that he, Natasha, and Clint had been watching, just days ago. About how crocodiles wait at the edge of a body of water for prey to draw near, and strike when the animal is at its most vulnerable; how, if the prey was too large, the crocodile would drag it to the bottom of the water to drown it, letting it rot for a few days before returning to consume the softening flesh.

The creature pulled and the water crept up to Steve’s chest. His mind went into survival mode: he could hold his breath for twenty minutes under water. If he _pretended _to have drowned, maybe the creature would loosen its hold and—

Before he could finish the thought, there was a sudden jerk of the arm encircled around his navel, and he was hoisted into the air.

The rush of the water sluicing down his body as he was taken from it and the sound of it dripping into the pool below seemed painfully loud. It made him dizzier than the sudden change in position alone, and he found himself lolling to one side, his body supported at the torso by a tentacle wrapped tightly around his chest and another two encircling under his arms. He was lucid enough to see that the creature had drawn itself up to a fuller height. It was dangling Steve in front of itself, as if to inspect him. Not that there were eyes that he could see or—

He gasped, and choked on his own breath.

In a spot near the apex of its body, where, had there been any recognizable shape to it, the head might have been, the surface of the creature’s black skin was undulating. The skin seemed to churn, morphing itself into something with definite contours, something that looked like a human face. A face that Steve recognized.

_Bucky._

Bucky’s face continued to take shape out of the inky skin, growing lighter, softer, more flesh-colored. Eyelashes grew from the closed eyelids, and they looked soft, feathery. As Steve’s eyes darted down the rest of the creature, he could swear that the outline of a body began to take shape. As if the creature had swallowed Bucky, and he was floating just beneath the surface of its skin.

But it _wasn’t_. The face was so similar, eerily exact; but there was something not right about it. Something alien.

Despite this, despite that he _knew _it _wasn’t him, _Steve found himself whispering hoarsely: “Bucky?”

A sudden, stifling silence dropped over the cavern just then. It was as if Steve had abruptly gone deaf.

And then, Bucky’s eyes opened.

Steve didn’t have time to recognize what he was seeing before he was plunged back down into the water.

Sound and sensation flooded him. The water was, impossibly, colder than before, so cold that it felt like thousands of tiny needles piercing his skin. He hadn’t had time to draw a breath, and found himself choking and, oh god, he _was_ going to drown—

Just as abruptly, the tentacles pulled him from the water and hoisted him into the air again. Steve was utterly limp in their grip, heaving and coughing painfully. His entire body was shivering violently, trying desperately to warm itself. He blinked the water from his eyes.

Bucky’s face was still there, but his eyes were closed again. There was a soft expression about his mouth, almost concern.

As a forceful shiver wracked Steve, he felt the tentacles around him moving, coiling and uncoiling around his torso, arms, legs. It was almost a soothing, petting motion. More tentacles wrapped around him, and he was soon virtually cocooned by them. It was terrifying—but warm. Not constricting, but nearly cozy, like being tightly wrapped in a heated blanket.

_It's trying to . . . to warm me? _he wondered hazily.

Water sloshed beneath them, and Steve saw, to his surprise, that the creature was moving closer to the shore of the pool. Was it returning him? 

He dared to think so. The creature’s arms around him were so warm, so soft, enveloping him. Within a very short time, he had gone from a state of alert terror to being almost drowsy in its embrace. . . .

Almost shyly, one of the smaller tentacles snaked up his chest and curled gently around his neck. He could feel it against the pulse of his vein, and it seemed to be curious about the steady _thud thud thud_ of it, as it tightened slightly. And then more. And then more.

And, suddenly, Steve was having trouble breathing.

He gasped and tried to move his arms, but they were bound fast to his sides. The tentacle around his neck tightened further, almost inquisitively, and Steve felt the pressure begin building in his head as his flow of blood and oxygen was cut off. He began to feel faint, and—

He must have blacked out because, the next thing he knew, he was laid face-down on the floor of the cave, his cheek pressed into cold stone.

He opened his eyes to utter and complete blackness.

He moved his arms sluggishly, trying to push himself up, but a silky tendril wrapped itself around one of his wrists, pulling it out from under him. It raised his arm above his head, seeming to pin it to the floor. Steve reached for it with his other hand, but became distracted when two larger tentacles snaked around each of his thighs.

His bare thighs.

He could feel the jagged edges of wet, ripped fabric of his tactical suit still clinging to him in some places: his back, his stomach, his left upper arm and shoulder. His utility belt hung uselessly around his waist, no longer attached to trousers. The rest of him was utterly exposed, as if the creature had been picking the suit apart piece-by-piece while he lay unconscious.

A stray tendril snaked its way up his forearm, curling around his bicep. It slipped beneath the fabric, and seemed to increase in size until the fabric was stretching, then ripping under the strain. The tendril, satisfied, relaxed and moved up further. Steve felt something slimy—not slick like the skin of the creature, but more viscous—and warm nestle into his armpit. He shuddered.

Unthinkingly, he reached for it with his free hand— but then that was taken away from him too, a black arm coiling around his forearm and hoisting his arm back, over his head, contorting the limb until his hand was nearly touching his back. His upper body protested against the strain of the position.

_“Steve.”_

If he’d had any freedom of movement, he would have jumped. As it was, he only yelped and lurched forward, putting more strain on his arm. He hissed, and his heart thudded almost painfully in his chest. That had sounded like—

His thoughts were interrupted when the arms around his thighs tightened, the tips of the tentacles wrapping further up his legs. They were pulling his thighs wider. Cold air hit the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, and he let out a grunt. He couldn’t see what was going on—the darkness that surrounded him was almost buzzing in its intensity—but he could _feel_ everything, could feel every single arm that encircled him. One of the smaller tendrils brushed past his thigh and smoothed its way up his belly, towards his chest. Steve thought it might be going for this throat again, but the tip of the arm stopped when it moved over his nipple.

No longer encapsulated in the creature’s warm embrace, Steve had begun to shiver again, and his nipples were pebbled with cold. The tendril, curious, brushed over the nipple again, and Steve felt something twist deep in his stomach. Gently, the tendril moved over his nipple, experimentally, as if cataloguing his reactions. The upper, thicker part of the tendril rubbed against his inner thigh with every movement, occasionally brushing his cock where it hung heavy between his thighs. (Where it grew _hard_ between his thighs.)

He shouldn’t be reacting this way. It was horribly wrong, depraved; but the tentacle was warm, so warm, and velvety slick, and his head wasn’t right, was growing fuzzier by the second, and he couldn’t help the moan that escaped him.

_“I heard that.”_

And Steve would have jumped again, because that _voice_, he knew that voice, and it had spoken the words so closely, as if right next to his ear. He would have shouted but, at the same time as the voice spoke, a second tentacle snaked between his thighs and rubbed firmly, _deliberately_ along the length of his cock. He gave a muffled gasp.

It felt as though a heavy weight were pressing down on him, and it took a moment before Steve could actually register the feeling of the tentacle laying across the length of his spine, heavy and pushing. Steve’s knees spread wider as he sank down further to the ground.

A noise did escape Steve then, something between a terrified laugh and a cough. This was a dream. He was hallucinating. He _had_ to be. He _knew_ he was hallucinating, he _knew _he was imaging the voice, and the hot, wet breath right next to his ear.

_“Good, Stevie. Shhh.”_

The next thing Steve knew, his dick was being wrapped in warm, soft, slickness. It was an almost overwhelming sensation, the feeling of the tentacle pulsing around him, constricting softly and pulling. The tentacle at his nipple seemed to suck at the nub of flesh, and there was no denying the warm coil of desire that settled in Steve’s gut, or the way his dick hardened fully in those velvety folds.

There was something terribly familiar about all of this. It reminded him of something. Dreams. Dreams that he’d had about Bucky. Dreams where Bucky was pushing him down on his knees, laying over his back, whispering filthy nothings in his ear. Guilty dreams that left him sweaty and shaking and so, so hard.

Much as he was now.

Steve let out a low moan into the utter darkness as the tentacle around his cock squeezed deliciously. His blush seemed to burn through his entire body. God. He should be ashamed of this, should be fighting back but it felt so good and he wasn’t thinking straight.

The tentacle wrapped around the wrist of his outstretched hand retracted, and Steve used the new freedom to push himself up slightly, leaning heavily on the one hand. The rock beneath his palm was slippery, and he was suddenly aware of the rawness of his knees, also pressed into the stone. The arm stretched behind him was twinging painfully, and he tugged slightly at it, hoping that the tentacle there would fall away too.

Instead, it merely tightened to the point of pain. The tentacle around his cock gave an unfriendly squeeze, and Steve’s body stuttered.

_“Ah, ah.”_ The voice. He was sure it wasn’t in the room—it couldn’t be, that was impossible. He _knew _it was in his head, and yet it was right there, right next to him, coaxing and teasing. _“Now, now, Stevie. We can’t have that.”_

_“Bucky—”_ Steve gasped. Another tentacle had joined the one at his cock, but instead was sliding along his balls, rubbing against them almost catlike and then pressing down just behind them. Steve gasped again. A bit of precum dribbledd from the head of his dick.

As if in response, the tentacle itself shivered, and Steve felt it secrete something, a slimy, viscous substance. It made the coil of the tentacle against his cock that much smoother, that much filthier, and he choked down a pathetic noise.

_“That’s it,”_ the voice crooned, that accent straight from Brooklyn, an accent that had no business being here in this cold, damp darkness, down here in this hellish nowhere. _“That’s it, baby. Are you good? Are you gonna be good for me?”_

“Wha—_oh_,” Steve found himself biting off the word, the syllable morphing into a moan as he felt another tentacle, also coated in that slimy substance, press against the small of his back. It dragged down, parting his ass and wriggling itself into the crack, down, passing wet and warm over his hole. He jerked, as if trying to get away from it, but the arms around his thighs held him firmly in place. The slick tendril made another pass over his hole, and Steve found himself whimpering.

“Oh, oh,” he swallowed, feeling exposed and violated and so fucking turned on. “Oh my god—”

And, the thing was, he had imagined this, imagined being like this for Bucky. On his hands and knees, naked and exposed, taking whatever Bucky would give him. He would be so good for Bucky. He would take anything—

Something like a strangled sob escaped him as the tendril, done with its lapping, wriggled against the rim of his hole. The tip of it dipped inside, and Steve could almost imagine that it was a long tongue, slick with spit, probing into the most intimate part of him, a place where he’d never been touched. It dipped in and out, once, twice, and, on the third time, it seemed slightly bigger. It was coating his hole with whatever substance it was secreting and the slide was easy, but alien.

“Bucky.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. Bucky wasn’t here, just in Steve’s head. He said it again. _“Bucky.”_

_“Stevie. Stevie, baby.”_

Steve’s one free hand gripped useless at the rock beneath him as the creature pressed its tentacle further inside him. It was maybe two inches deep, and seemed to be thickening. Steve moaned, both from the sensation and the strain that he was suddenly aware his body was under. He was shaking with an effort to hold himself up with the one hand, with his knees spread so wide. And he was just so hard, almost painfully so.

As if sensing his discomfort, the tentacle that had been holding his left arm behind his back loosened, enough that Steve could bring it back and put it under him. Now, he truly was on hands and knees.

It might have occurred to him, then, that both of his hands were now free; he could try to fight back, if he wanted. But, before he could form that coherent of a thought, the tentacle inside him retracted and much larger one pressed at the entrance of his hole.

“Oh, god, oh god oh god,” Steve blabbered into the darkness as the tentacle pushed slowly into him. It was big, thick, blunted, what he imagined a cock would feel like, and his body resisted, his inner muscles tightening against the intrusion.

But the tentacle pushed onward, unrelenting, and Steve’s body couldn’t hold out. It breached the first, then the second ring of muscle, and if there hadn’t been tentacles holding him up, Steve might had collapsed. Fuck, it burned, and the pressure was so intense. He felt full, and he didn’t know if he could—

He must have started crying, because the voice in his ear became cooing, coaxing. _“Oh. Oh, baby, shhh. You can take it. I promise you can. Just be good for me. Be good, and take what I give you.”_

“No— no, please—” Steve tried to protest but the thing pressed deeper, and then pulled out slightly, pumping into him. In his periphery, he was aware of the obscene squelch the tentacle made as it leisurely pulled in and out of him. “No— no, _stop_— oh—”

It did seem to stop, for a moment. The tentacle withdrew enough so that only the tip of it was still inside him, wriggling against his rim. Steve relaxed minutely. Maybe it would listen. Maybe it would stop. . . .

The tip of the tentacle made a swipe around in the inside of him that had him crying out. Suddenly, it was pushing forward again, even more forcefully than before. It pushed until still felt it filling him completely, pressing up against a spot inside him that had him whimpering despite himself.

The tentacle pulled out, and Steve nearly moaned at the loss of it before it drove back inside. It seemed to coat itself further with its own secretion, making the slide seamless, the only resistance against it being Steve’s body, which was growing more receptive by the second—

The force of the tentacle moving in and out of him intensified. It began thrusting harder, deeper,, and he found himself sliding forward on his knees with every thrust, the motion scraping his skin raw. The tentacle around his dick squeezed in time with the thrusts, making him dizzy, making him moan. He felt filthy, like a cheap trick, like a whore, just letting himself get fucked but, oh god, it felt so good—

_“Baby, you look so sweet,”_ said Bucky’s voice, full of praise and appreciation. _“My baby doll. Look at the sweet mess you’re making.”_

At the words, Steve found himself moaning louder, pushing back as the tentacle pumped into him. Never mind that Bucky had never said that to him in real life (nor would he _ever_ say that). But he found himself wanting to be good for Bucky. To be sweet for him. To be—

“Oh, _oh_,” Steve couldn’t help the stupid little noises that were coming out of him now. More precum leaked from his aching cock and he couldn’t help pushing back and bearing down, even as the tentacle seemed to swim inside him, swirling with every plunge. It was hitting that spot inside him that he didn’t know existed until now; it was making him lightheaded and sent little electric jolts of pleasure through him with every thrust. He was mewling, like a cat in heat, making a sorry spectacle of himself but, fuck, he couldn’t help it—

“Bucky,” he whined. His bit his own lip, felt the sharp sting, the taste of copper. “Oh, oh Buck—I—mmmph” he bit off a wanton whimper.

_“That’s it, baby,”_ Bucky cooed, voice hot against his ear. _“Bet that little whore hole of yours can take more. I bet you’re aching for it, hmm?”_

“Nnn— Buck, please,” Steve whimpered. “Please, I need—”

But before he could say anything more, the tentacle pushed in, harder than ever, and Steve felt his orgasm rip through him abruptly, as if punched out of his body. He shook, his entire body spasming, and he felt himself ejaculate into the tight grip of the coils around his dick. His arms gave out, and he slumped forward onto the cold stone, body stuttering, breath coming in sharp gasps. His head swam. He was exhausted and spent, and he wanted to curl up into a ball on the cold stone floor.

But the creature didn’t seem to notice that anything had changed. The tentacle kept pushing in and out of him vigorously, the others constricting around his torso and his cock. It was too much. He was over-sensitized. The pumping of the tentacles pushed him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Steve mewled in both pleasure and discomfort, his dick twitching. He tried to push himself up but his arms were completely useless. His entire body felt completely useless, as if he had no control over it—

There was something like a tickling sensation at his back, and Steve screamed when he felt a second tentacle slide in alongside the first, stretching him even wider. They scissored in and out of him, taking turns penetrating him until at last they were both sliding in, completely in sync, and the stretch was too much, he could feel them distending his insides, and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of being so fucking _full._

“N—no,” Steve stuttered. His cheek was pressed against the slick limestone on the ground, his voice muffled by the angle, weak. “No, stop— please stop—”

There was no answer, save for the tentacle around his torso seeming to tighten. He was finding it harder to breathe. He was so overwhelmed, overstimulated. He tried to speak again:

“I— please,” his voice cracked on the please as the two tentacles fucking him drove in hard. “Stop. Bucky, please stop. Make it stop—”

But there was no answer, none at all. What followed Steve’s pathetic plea was an eerie silence, one that had been there the whole time but that Steve had not noticed until just this moment, a silence only punctuated by the squelch of the tentacles moving inside him.

Bucky was gone.

Maybe, he was never there.

Everything else that Steve had been feeling in that moment was suddenly swallowed up by an icy fear.

“No,” he whispered into the darkness. “No, no, no, no, no, no—”

The tentacles drove deeper, so deep that it was painful, made Steve felt sick. The one around his torso tightened even further. Another trailed up his back, circling his neck and beginning to squeeze. He felt like he was being torn apart. And now he _really_ couldn’t breathe.

“Buc—” it was the only sound he could make before the tendril around his neck coiled tighter, pressing down on his throat, choking him. He closed his eyes, the darkness there no different, just closer. He couldn’t breathe, and he was going to be ripped inside, and he was drowning, drowning. . . .

**~o~o~o~o~o~**

“Rogers.”

Someone was shaking him, a small hand on his shoulder. Gentle, but firm.

_“Rogers.”_

He opened his eyes.

It was not dark, not completely. There was light, streaming down from a small hole twenty, maybe thirty meters above him. And, crouching over him, haloed by the light, was a familiar figure, face thrown into shadow.

“Natasha,” Steve rasped.

He saw the ghost of a relieved grin. “Up and at ‘em, Rogers,” she chided. She shook his shoulder again. “C’mon, get up.”

Unsteadily, and without quite knowing how, Steve managed to push himself into a sitting position. He looked at Natasha, who was surveying him with concern.

“We met at the rendezvous point. Barnes said he lost you whilst you two were tracking through the woods,” she said. “He couldn’t find you. So, we all backtracked to help look.”

It was then that Steve noticed the gas mask she was holding in her right hand, as if she’d just taken it off to wake him. He nodded at it. “What’s with the gas mask?”

“There are capsules set to blow all over this base,” Natasha told him. “Buried in the ground. We used to have a similar system when we abandoned compromised Red Room facilities— though, we mostly used explosives.”

“Capsules?” Steve asked. He still didn’t understand.

“Full of drugs,” Natasha clarified. “Psychoactive ones. Sam stepped on one, set it off. He started to hallucinate pretty badly.”

A rush of concern filled Steve. “Is he okay?”

Natasha nodded, an odd, catlike grin gracing her features. “Nothing a little cognitive recalibration couldn’t fix.” She paused. “I think the better question is: are _you _okay? You fell from quite a height. And you were . . .” she grimaced, as if the word she was about to say was distasteful. “You were shivering and whimpering before I woke you.”

Steve felt his brow furrow. He moved to stand, and Natasha rose quickly from her crouch. She gave him a hand, and he took it gratefully, though it was symbolic more than necessary. He stood unsteadily on the spot, feeling woozy. His body hurt in ways that he wasn’t familiar with. Natasha eyed him warily.

“You okay, Cap?” she asked again, softly.

Steve kept blinking, trying to clear his head. He barely remembered falling. He only remembered—he looked down suddenly.

His clothes.

His tactical suit was still in one piece, although slightly worse for wear. There were torn patches, but nothing . . . exposing. Steve touched a hand to his stomach, where before there had been nothing but bare skin. The suit . . . there was no way it could have been repaired from that. So, how . . . ?

A nudge from his left told him that Natasha was trying to get his attention. He looked down to see that she was offering him another gas mask. He took it, turning it over in his hands as if he’d never seen one before.

He opened his mouth. He needed to say something. Something to reassure her.

“I think I was dreaming.”

She nodded her head slowly. “Seemed like it.”

He kept looking into the eyes of the gas mask. He felt . . . wrong. Off. “How long was I down here?”

“About two, maybe three hours.”

He didn’t know why, but the knowledge made him feel sick.

He turned from her, then, to look at the cave surrounding them. It didn’t look familiar at all. Off in the distance, it seemed to narrow, become a tunnel that wove out of sight. There was no pool, but small puddles of clear water a few yards from him. He looked up at the ceiling and walls of the cave, and his eyes widened.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing up at the streaks of pink . . . _something _that were clinging to parts of the ceiling. They seemed to be glowing. Glowing, but not moving.

Natasha shrugged. “We think it’s bioluminescent fungi. Sam and I found it growing inside one of the buildings too.”

Steve’s heart sank.

“Are we done here?” he asked, the question sounding less authoritative and more pleading. Pathetic.

But Natasha didn’t mention it, didn’t mention how wrecked he sounded. She probably never would. She had his back like that, for better or worse.

“Yeah. We’re done here.”

**~o~o~o~o~o~**

They used the grappling hook on Steve’s utility belt to hoist themselves out of the cave. From the surface, Natasha commed in to alert Barnes and Sam that she’d found Steve and they were on their way back. Then, they began walking.

It was almost a three-mile trek back to the jet. Natasha took the lead and didn’t say a word the entire time; twice she looked back at Steve, the gas mask making it impossible to tell what expression she was wearing. Steve tried not to cringe.

Sam and Bucky were already waiting inside when they arrived back. Natasha saved Steve the trouble of having to explain himself by telling them what had happened. Sam, the only trained medic of the lot, demanded to look Steve over, whilst Bucky simply watched him with an unreadable expression.

Steve submitted to Sam’s scrutiny. It wasn’t invasive: Sam merely catalogued his body for injuries: based on the swelling, it looks like he might have shattered his left wrist in the fall, but it was already healing. There was a bump on the back of Steve’s head that was tender to the touch and that was also unsettling. He didn’t have that. Before.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got one to match,” Sam said jocularly. He turned his close-shaven head so that Steve could see the welt on the right side. “Tell your girl to be more careful, huh?”

Steve glanced up toward the cockpit, where Natasha was gearing up for take-off. There was no doubt she’d heard— her hearing was almost as good as Steve’s— but she paid them no mind.

Steve sat back into one of the passenger seats. On the march back to the jet, he had been constantly taking inventory of himself. Something didn’t feel right. His body hurt in ways that he wasn’t familiar with; there was an ache, deep in his gut, that he can’t explain. He felt sick.

As the jet took off from the landing strip, Sam moved away, going to sit in the co-pilot’s chair. He and Natasha began talking in low voices, and Steve didn’t bother trying to make out what they were saying.

Steve had been aware of Bucky’s continued gaze on him ever since he stepped aboard the jet. Before, Steve would have felt elated: to have Bucky’s attention, his rapt attention, was a rarity. It used to make Steve feel special. Now, its intensity was unnerving in a way that Steve couldn’t quite explain; but he wished that Bucky would look away. 

About an hour into the flight, Steve was feeling queasy. He was trying not to hunch over in his seat with his eyes closed when he felt someone sit down beside him. He opened his eyes.

Bucky was perched nearly on the edge of the seat, almost as if he didn’t want to be there. His face was completely blank, full of dead nothing, but Steve swore he could see something that looked like concern and unease in his eyes.

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.

Steve nodded, probably too fast to be believable. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Buck.”

Bucky continued to stare at him, and Steve wasn’t sure if Bucky believed him or not.

After a moment, he reached out his human hand, and placed it on Steve’s shoulder.

And it should feel like a victory. Should feel good.

It took everything Steve had not to flinch.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> was it even her fantasy?  
we have looked at her, into her,  
asking ourselves: why did she  
dare to dream it? 
> 
> she was wanton.  
she was lonely.  
she could not control her dreams.


End file.
